


Letters of love, visions of tears

by NosferatuInAMustache



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-28
Updated: 2014-12-28
Packaged: 2018-03-03 23:52:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2892707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NosferatuInAMustache/pseuds/NosferatuInAMustache
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wilson has gotten quite attached to his mysterious penpal, William Carter, but nothing is what it seemed.</p><p>(THIS STORY HAS BEEN DISCONTINUED AND THERE WILL BE NO UPDATE! MY DEEPEST APOLOGIES)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Letters of love, visions of tears

**Author's Note:**

> A/N:  
> Can be viewed as a half-assed stand-alone, but if this get enough reviews, I'll continue it.  
> AU thingy.

Wilson's heart raced as he saw the mailman exit through the rickety gate outside of his house. It had felt like forever since last time and he had waited for so long.  
Carefully placing his beakers down on the table, he trotted down the creaky stairs as fast as his short legs would carry him. Through the dusty kitchen, down the narrow hallway until he burst through the door and was bathed in sunlight.

He hadn't anticipated how bright the autumn sun would be today, and he raised a pale hand to cover his eyes from the sharp light as he hurried down the overgrown path. Wilson had to admit that he was a bit out of shape from the small run because his heart was pounding painfully against his chest as he reached the mailbox and he had to pause for a few seconds to catch his breath.

When Wilson finally felt like he could breathe again, he straightened the collar of his shirt and smoothed out some invisible wrinkles on his waistcoat, like the finest visitor was waiting for him inside the box.  
Reaching out to open it, his hands halted as he remembered one last thing.  
His hands shot up to his unruly, black, wavy hair and tried to smooth it back as best as he could. No use in looking presentable if ones hair looked like a crowsnest.

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath before leaning forward to open the tin box and check the mail. As he looked inside, his eyes lit up and a smile spread across his face as if the finest treasure lay waiting for him inside.  
It was a letter, and the envelope was covered in stamps.  
With a shaking hand, he picked it up with such care that one might think it was about to crumble to dust in his hands.  
A pink blush started to spread over his pointy nose, over his pale cheeks until it reached his ears as he carefully hugged it against his chest.  
Wilson's heart had begin speeding again, but he didn't care.  
All that mattered was the present and that the letter was finally here.

Clutching the overstamped envelope to his chest with both hands, he trudged back into the house, while he tried to fight the way his body practicaly vibrated with anticipation to find out what was inside the envelope.  
He glanced down and looked at it, thumbs fondly stroking over the edges. He recognised the elaborate, decorative and almost feminine handwriting on the front and his smile grew even wider.

He stumbled several times on his way up the stairs, but was to distracted to even care about his own clumsiness.  
When he finally reached his laboratory once again, he grabbed a scalpel and calmly sat down in his chair.  
Wilson eyed the fine penmanship that had written his name and adress on the front and felt the pitter patter of butterflies in his belly.  
Which was ridiculos, he told himself.  
As a gentleman scientist, he knew there was no such thing as "butterflies" anywhere in his digestive system and implying so was foolish.

Holding his breath, he steadied his hand to make the first cut into the envelope with the scalpel, and did so with as much finesse as he could muster. He was terrified that he might damage the content inside if he was too reckless with his cuts.  
Wilson looked over at his documentation board where he had fastened all his most important work documents and chemical equations. But in the corner, bright as day, hung a black and white photograph.

He could only dream of owning such a luxury as a camera one day himself, but he was glad that the man in the picture owned one. Wilson smiled at the picture.  
It was a dapper looking, young man with a wide smile, a long, distingtive chin and big, round glasses. His black, wispy hair was combed in place and Wilson could only see the shoulders of what he assumed to be a quite fine, pin striped suit.  
The polar oppsite of what Wilson himself was.  
But it didn't stop him from smiling fondly every time he walked past it or let his gaze linger.

Mouth suddenly feeling a bit dry, he averted his eyes and continued with the task at hand.  
The paper parted under the sharp point of the scalpel, and he put the sharp object away as he fished out the papers inside.  
He carefully unfolded them, a bit disappointed as he noticed that the letter was much shorter than usual, but that didn't stop him from eagerly reading what it contained.

" _Dear Percival,_  
It's so fortunate to hear how close you are to a breaktrough on your invention, I am bursting with curiosety over what it might be since you have so far been very secretive about it. I hope that one day, you will let me see it along with your lab.  
It sounds like quite a marvelous place.  
And say, pal, how are you?  
I cannot believe it has been four months since last we exchanged letters. I miss it almost every day.  
But I fear I am the one to blame for this wrong doing. My health has been failing me, and I have been quite sickly these past few months and I hope you can forgive and old friend for not being able to write for this long.  
And I also apologize for keeping this letter so short, you deserve half a novel.

However short I may be, I bring good news with me, my gentleman scientist.  
My doctor has recommended I relocate for the sake of my own health, and he suggested I move to a warmer, more hospitable climate and said the Americas would be a good choice.

As you get this letter, some time has probably passed, but may I make a request?  
I would be honored to finally meet you, Percival. Would this be alright with you?  
I have a premiere with a circus on October 28th, and by pulling a few strings we are premiering in your neighbouring town.  
Will you do me the honor of being there for me?  
You will recognise me as the beanstalk on the stage, pulling white, fluffy bunnies out of a hat.  
But I fear your description of youself is a bit obscure and hardly does you any justice. I bet you are as handsome as you are intelligent, pal.  
Say, black seems to be very high fashion these days, so why don't to wear your red waistcoat? That way, I will be able to immediately recognize you.  
It will be a pleasure to finally meet you in person, Higgsbury.  
P.S:  
I got you a ticket for the entire show, because I won't allow my friend to pay like any other common Joe.

Best regards

William

"

Wilson slapped a hand over his gaping mouth to trap the loud wail of joy from escaping. He could not believe it, this could assuredly not be real...could it?  
He read the letter again, fished out the bright and colorful ticket and read the letter again.  
The 28th? Oh dear creators of science, that was today.

The piece of paper fell to the floor as he sprinted around the house to clean and make the house look presentable.  
Beakers and glass were thurrowly cleaned and stored away, the kitchen cleaned and washed to perfection, and he repaired the old rickety bed in his guestroom.  
He did it with hesitation, as images from his subconcious came to the front of his mind.  
Wilson chewed worriedly at his lip as he basked in it, himself and William waking up together in the same bed, warm from sleep and their har messy as they lay close to one another.

Wilson pushed the images away, suddenly angry with himself.  
Had he become so lonely that he had become some sort of deviant?  
Those kind of thoughts were wrong, and even if William was his friend, his only friend, the other man surely would be disgusted by such thoughts. Disgusted by him.  
His face fell and he continued to repair the bed in silence, trying not to listen to the thoughts in his head.  
That he was disgusting, perverse, a deviant and a monster that was going to hell. He tried to tell himself that there was no such thing as hell, and as long as nobody knew, he would be safe.

When he had finished repairing and securing his bed, he decided to take a path and put on some clean clothes, The ones he was wearing were discolored from chemical spills and other mysterious stains that seemed impossible to wash out.  
His hair didn't quite look it's cleanest either.  
Looking at his pocketwatch, he sighed. There was still some time left and if he hurried, he would be there early.

After thirty minutes, he walked into the spotless kitchen, clean and with his hair looking fluffier than ever,  
He had spent longer than expected cleaning, grooming and shaving himself and now he was late.  
Making sure the ticket was safely in his waitcoat pocket, he sighed with releaf, grabbed a hat to conceal the ridicilous fluffiness that was his hair before trotting back outside.  
It was getting dark soon, so he better hurry.  
He grabbed the rusty, old bike leaning against the old fence around his house and started to pedal down the narrow path that lead down into the two towns.

His heart was pounding incredibly fast and he felt sweaty and cold at the same time as the wind rustled through his poorly chosen attire.  
As he rolled through the streets, he spotted a flowerstand that was just about to close for the day.  
He pressed the breaks so hard that he was nearly thrown off as he halted in front of the flowerstand.  
Wilson tried to speak, but he was out of breath, but held up his hand as a sign for the lady to give him a minute to catch his breath.  
"One..." he wheezed "One of your finest...boquets, please"  
The woman gave him a strange look, but complied as she brought a nice boquet of flowers up from a basket and he nodded in gratitude.  
He didn't have the time to count his money, but he knew he gave way too much as he threw the money at her and grabbed the boquet.  
There was only a matter of minutes til the show started, but that only made him more determined to make it as he pedaled faster and faster.  
As he came closer, he could see bright lights, hear the exagareted, cheerful music and bright, colorful posters fastned to every vertical surface around.

He finally made it, he thought as he stumbled over his bike where he had discarded it in the grass as he ran over to the entrance where a gigantic, gorilla of a man with a big mustache checked tickets.  
Wilson fished his, folded and somewhat crumpled one, out of his pocket and as the man took it from him he studied it closely while his mustache bristled on top of his lip.  
He then gave Wilson a suspicious look before handing back the ticket and opening the tent flap to let him in.

Wilson nodded in gratitude as he clutched the boquet like a lifeline in his hands as he entered.  
Inside the tent, it was very hot and it smelled like sawdust and animals. But it would be silly to expect anything else since most of the stars were in fact animals.

Breathing deeply, Wilson repeated his tiny ritual from earlier in the day, carefully smoothing out his white shirt, then straightening out imaginery creases in his red waistcoat before plucking the hat from his head before attempting to force his wild hair to look presentable.  
This was it.  
Everything had to be perfect.  
It was all or nothing.  
And yet he was desperate for his friends approval. A friend he had never met, but felt so strongly for that they might as well beein lovers.  
There they were again.  
Those dangerous, intrusive thoughts that were going to get him killed one if these days.

Trying to escape from his own thoughts, he zig-zagged through the jungle of people that were two heads or more taller than himself and found himself a seat. Why did he have to be so damnably short?

Through the first two acts, Wilson could barely pay attention, too nervous to focus. The boquet in his hands suffered most of the abuse of his nervous fidgeting which by then had left the paper creased and wrinkly.  
What if William hated flowers?  
Or worse, was allergic?  
His pulse hammered in his throat and he started to feel anxious.  
What if William didn't like him?  
The thought was almost too much to bear, and the thought of rejection was even worse.

He spiraled deeper into his own fears, hands shaking like he was freezing.  
Wilson's jaw clenched so hard that he swore he could hear his teeth creak.  
He exhaled heavily through his nose, trying to calm himself, but he couldn't stop shivering.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen, children of all ages, madames and monsieurs: In our final act of the evening, get ready to be amazed and mystified by our one and only: The Great magician, William Carter!"

Wilson's head shot up and all his fears were forgotten when he laid his eyes on the stage.  
A man walked gracefully out on the stage, clad in a theatrical black, pinstriped suit, big, round glasses resting on the bridge of his hook nose.  
His smile was wide, friendly and reached right up to his hazel eyes.

Wilson felt like his face was on fire, and his heart was beating so fast that he was starting to feel dizzy.  
William was to say it mildly, dapper, graceful and everything Wilson expected him to be.  
In other words. He was perfect.

The tiny scientist practically swooned in his chair.

While the rest of the audience ooh'ed and aah'ed at every little trick and gesture the magician did and made, Wilson was tranfixed on the man himself.  
For three years.  
Three whole years had they exchanged letters, laughed together and supported each other like the best of pals.  
But Wilson couldn't deny that he was feeling something more. When they laughed at one of their jokes, Wilson would laugh a bit harder, when there was something serious, Wilson worried a bit more.  
He wouldn't go as far as to say that he was in love.  
But there was a deep affection there, that left him with shaking hands and weak at the knees.  
William was good for a magician, but Wilson couldn't wait for the show to be over, just so he could be in the magician's presence.

For what seemed like an eternity later, the last round of applause rippled through the audience and William bowed and and abandoned the stage.  
Wilson shot out of his seat, hat clutched in one hand and the boquet of flowers in the other.  
He exhaled nervously and smoothed down his hair one last time before walking up to the edge of the stage.

"W-Willam?" He called out nervously.  
No answer.  
Carefully and quietly, he got up on the stage and walked behind the drapes.  
"Carter?" he tried a little louder this time. He refused to believe that William was that good a magician that he could disappear into thin air.  
Stopping to look around, he heard laughter from one of the enclosures. There were two of them, one of them distinctively male and one softer, obviously female.

"Oh darling! You did so well tonight" the female voice said cheerfully.

Wilson trudged closer, ear against the cloth seperating the three of them while he peaked through the curtains. There was a short, brownhaired woman that he hadn't seen before. She had a wide, red mouth and her body was curved like an hourglass.  
She was sitting crosslegged in the lap of the man, gloved hands wrapped around the back of the man's neck.

"Say, madam, how well did I do?"  
Wilson's eyes widened, and he suddenly felt very anxious.  
He recognised that voice.  
It was William.

"So well that you deserve one of these" the woman chuckled and leaned in for a long, sensual kiss.

Wilson felt like he couldn't breathe. His throat felt too tight and his eyes were suddenly blury and burning.  
He needed to get out of here.

" _I don't even know who I was before I started loving you_ "

The tiny scientist couldn't take it any more. It felt like his chest was breaking apart and all he could do was run.  
Run and gasp for air.  
Wilson felt completely numb, and didn't even register the freezing night air as he escaped the tent.  
He gasped for air for only a second before fleeing, ignoring the rusty, discarded bike in the grass that he had thrown on the ground all those hours ago.  
His heart was breaking, and he felt like such a fool.  
He felt rejected and alone.  
He felt like nothing.

The entire walk home made him feel like a painfully, empty husk and he didn't reach the outside of his gate before deep into the night when it was at it's darkest and coldest.  
He looked at the boquet in his hand, and bitterly threw it in between the trees and hoped he never had to see such a painful reminder again.  
The walk up the stairs seemed like the hardest climb in his life, but when he finally reached is lab, he stumbled inside and locked the door and silently slid down the vertical, wooden surface as the first sobs started to rattle through his body.  
Wilson buried his face in his hands and brought his knees up to his chin.  
For the first time ever since he was a child, he cried.

Something moved amongst the shadows, twisting and coiling to something living within the pitch blackness of night.  
It grew into a distinct shape that grew limbs and clawed hands, and within this darkness a glowing red ember smoldered and emitted smoke.  
Two black eyes stared out from in between the trees at the rickety house surrounded by a fragile, white fence.

The shadow moved, reached out along the ground and hesitated for only a second. The tendril of shadow took the shape of a pale, leatherclad hand that reached into the discarded boquet of flowers, claws carefully extracting the reddest flower in the bunch.  
It brought this treasure back into the dark blackness, before sinking back into the ground.  
Only then, did it slither like a snake over the grass, under the fence and under the crack beneath the door. It glided up the stairs where it halted once more.  
It reared its shapeless head, tasting and sensing the ear before slithering like a dark tendril under the locked and sealed door.

When the shadow entered the room, it rejoiced at the sight of the sniveling, sobbing form on the floor, trying to make itself smaller.  
Trying to hide from the world.  
Its sorrow was deliciously sweet.

Slinking into the inner corner of the room, the shadow grew, gained shapes and claws and eyes until the darkness was finally encased in skin and cloth.  
It had taken the shape of a impossibly tall, pale man with a painfully wide and wicked grin.  
Between those sharp, pearly white teeth hung a burning sigar.

The man sauntered over, smile widening even more at the pityful sight by the door and it spoke with a velvety smooth, masculine voice.

" _Say pal. you don't look so good"_  
  
THE END?


End file.
